


there's nowhere compares tae my hometown

by heavensfallingaroundus



Series: diamonds in the mud [2]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF, Scottish Actor RPF
Genre: Elton is a proud dad, Fast Cars, Love, M/M, Richard is a coy boy as per, Taron is an emotional bride, Wedding Planning, cheeky sex, general silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: When there's wedding planning, and Scotland is really the only option (for everything but the wine).
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Series: diamonds in the mud [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646128
Comments: 18
Kudos: 45





	there's nowhere compares tae my hometown

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello again good people! I promised you a sequel more than a month ago, and then I disappeared writing Richard being happy with someone else. Imagine that.  
> Don't fret, though, because we're back! And, I hope, with a bang!  
> This little thing was entirely inspired by Gerry Cinnamon's song _Diamonds in the Mud_ and written over the course of approximately 24 hours—and it was absolutely not beta-read, so please, as usual, bear with me.  
> See you on the other side.

_I’ve been all ‘round the world, but there’s nowhere compares tae my hometown_

From the first fitting at MacGregor and MacDuff’s, it’s clear to Taron that it’s not just about the outfits.

It’s not just because they’re the best kiltmakers in town. It’s not about the tasteful blue and green with strands of real fucking silver thread that Richard chooses as his signature tartan colours. It’s not about the hilt of his new _sgian_ , his dad’s wedding present—a silver and onyx Lion Rampant—peeking proudly from Richard’s sock, its shiny ruby eyes somehow managing to blind Taron from across the room.

It’s not just the tight brogue and the ridiculous amount of Gaelic he hears when he’s hanging out with Richard’s clique of childhood friends and school mates from the Conservatory—which he _adores_ , and which never fails to make him weak at the knees.

It’s not even just about the sun going down on a bottle of eighteen-year-old Scotch and four dram glasses in the garden of Dick and Pat Madden’s country house one late night in early June, when days are longest and when Scotland is somehow clement even temperature-wise.

For Taron, it’s really all about the look in Richard’s eyes when he’s in Glasgow. There’s a glint in that gaze of bluest blue, clear as the sky over the River Clyde when winds are fast and the current is roaring.

There’s a fascinating familiarity in every interaction with his peers, in that tight dialect speckled with words from that Celtic language Taron still struggles to understand.

There’s _mayhem_ in this city, from the East Side to the West, from the hills of Castlemilk down to the Southside—the same chaotic energy he and his _bois am byth_ bring to the otherwise quiet seaside vibe of Aberystwyth, except times a thousand. The language, the people, the beer, the whisky, the music—the tradition.

Therefore, it’s very quickly plain as fucking day that the wedding needs to happen somewhere in Glasgow.

He spends several sleepless nights comparing venues, then, narrowing down the best picks for their preferred dates and overall logistical needs, and he finds three viable options. He takes the liberty to bring only two to Richard for his kind consideration, hoping he’ll pick the correct one, the one Taron prefers, and therefore be actually worth marrying.

Thankfully, Richard does. Taron plants a smooch on his lips and enters his credit card details to pre-book the very appropriately named House for an Art Lover for the 21st of September. Which, on a second thought, Taron decides might have been a pretty rash decision, because it means that the wedding is officially—

“In three months, James. _Three_. _Months_. How the _fuck_ am I going to manage it all in such a short amount of time?” Taron whines over the phone to Jamie one Monday morning in late June, when it all gets too real. He’s calling New York, where it’s currently around 2AM—but, to be fair, Jamie knew perfectly well what he was getting himself into when he agreed to help them out. Or, maybe more accurately, he _should have known_.

“Mmmh, sounds like a true conundrum,” Jamie ponders, in-between yawns. He falls silent, and Taron hears a baby cooing on the end of the line.

“Hi, Iris!” he squeals, excitedly. He loves that baby girl to bits. “How’s my favourite goddaughter?”

“How’s your _only_ goddaughter? She’s teething, and an absolute nightmare,” Jamie says, scoffing, tired but with an audible smile on his face. “Much like you and that other fuckface you're marrying.”

“Hey, that is _rude_.”

“Seriously, Taron. Between you both you’re worth, what—at least twelve mil?”

“Um. Yes, that is, weirdly enough, correct. Also, an extremely specific piece of trivia.”

“Yeah, well. I might have gone down a Google rabbit hole a couple of nights back. As I said, lots of teething, not lots of sleeping going on at the moment,” he says, blearily. “Still on top of both o’ youse, by the way. I’m at eleven mil all by my lonesome, thank you very much.”

Taron rolls his eyes at the frankly ludicrous topic of conversation. “James. Kindly stop sucking your own cock—I can hear the sound of your ribs cracking from all the way down here.”

Jamie lets out a raucous laugh, that Iris seems to find extremely funny, because she follows suit, a high-pitched baby cackle that makes Taron smile from ear to ear.

“Sorry, sorry, you’re right. Point being—you’re both loaded. And one of you is Scottish, for Christ’s sake. Are you telling me you can’t scrim and save a bit—stop buying designer clothes and shopping exclusively at Waitrose for a couple of weeks, _et cetera_ , _et cetera_ —and find yourself a real canny wedding planner to take care of you two princesses’ every need?”

Somehow, in the midst of all the madness, Taron hadn’t even thought of that. He clearly has everything to learn from wedding-veteran Jamie Bell, it seems.

“Genius, James. Proper genius.”

“And an uber original idea, too, what do ya know,” Jamie replies, sarcastically. “Go back on the Internet, ask around, and find yerself a good person for it. Ask anyone you know who got married in the UK. Ask Cara or Lauren. Ask your _mother_ , for the love of God. I need my daughter to sleep, now—and I need proper kip too, actually. Got an audition in the morning, if you can believe that.”

“I can’t, actually. You wouldn’t think you’d need to work, what with your _eleven mil_ net worth and your wife’s family fortune.”

“Oh, sod off, T.”

“You first.”

“I’m seriously going.”

“No, wait, Jamie?”

“What is it now?” _Noo._

“Thank you. I love you.”

“Aye, you do. Love you too, knob’ead.”

***

They see several wedding planners in the next couple of weeks—most of them blonde women in taupe power suits with legs a mile long and dripping in Tiffany’s—but the one Taron ends up falling head over heels for is, inevitably, the underdog. A tiny, ginger man in a tweed suit called Bernie, whose accent is so thick Taron has to ask him multiple times to speak slower, and please could he repeat, _sorry, didn’t quite get that_. Which obviously sparks incredible hilarity in Richard, who has no problem understanding the man’s Aberdonian brogue—and even tries to mimic it when he leaves—but Taron is so happy with ticking another box of his all-Scottish-themed wedding that he doesn’t even mind being made fun of.

Bernie is a hoot. He’s middle-aged, bubbly and larger-than-life. Also, gayer than anyone Taron’s ever met in his _life_ —and that bold statement does, surprisingly, include _Elton John_ —and, despite having grown up in the Lands of Always Winter—Bernie’s words, and an absolutely deliberate cheeky reference that gets Richard all hot and bothered about _Thrones_ every single time—knows Glasgow like the back of his hand. Arranges flower appointments, four cake tastings and several other catering options for them to try out, then phones local jewellers up to have Taron and Richard look at wedding rings, all in two and a half week’s work. The man is, in a word, a genius. Or, maybe… a magician? A Reptilian? Who knows. The only thing Taron cares about is that things get done, and Bernie is getting them done big fucking time, and he couldn’t be happier about it.

One late-July morning, when they’re sitting at the kitchen table of their London flat, having coffee and Weetabix while tapping away at their computer keyboards, replying to e-mails—and, as for Taron, fending off Lindsay’s petulant phone calls about considering working with Roman Polanski—Bernie calls Richard on the phone. They both do an excited little dance before Richard drags the green button on his screen and takes the call, which goes to speaker.

“What d’ye want tae do about music, then, fellas?” Bernie asks them, chipper, after getting them up to date with everything they’ve already greenlighted. “D’ye have anything in mind?”

Richard’s eyes meet Taron’s while they’re both taking a sip of coffee from their mugs, and he gives Taron a Cheshire Cat grin. _Go on_ , he mouths, inaudibly. _Tell him_.

Taron rolls his eyes, but can’t help a huge fucking smile from creeping up on his own face as well. “Um, Bernie? D’you remember that movie Richard and I were in a couple of years back?”

“Oh, fucking hell, he’s going the long way,” Richard scoffs, chuckling silently and resting his mug back on the table. “Forgive him, Bernie. He’s got an ego problem.”

Bernie laughs in earnest at that. “Rrrrright-o,” he replies, chipper. “No need tae say any more, Taron. Penning in that entertainment is taken care of. Will Sir Elton be needing a crew? Security? Or help with literally anything else?”

“Thanks, Bernie, but Elton’s bringing his own people. Oh, and I think he mentioned he’s bringing _Harry Styles_ , too.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Richard groans, shaking his head. “You bloody show-off.”

Bernie, however, decides to give Taron the time of day. “I personally am crawling out of my skin with excitement,” he declares. Taron flips Richard off and decides he kind of likes Bernie more than Richard, by this point, and ponders whether it might be too late to change his mind and marry Bernie instead.

“And that’s why I love you, Bernie. Thank you, for everything,” Taron says, grateful, picking at his cereal with his spoon. “Let us know when we can book tickets to leave this miserable country and go away for our wine tasting—I know my ungrateful fiancé is extremely excited about _that_ , at least,” he teases, and it’s Richard’s turn to flip him the bird, now.

“The estate told me they’d let me know—around Wednesday or Thursday next week,” Bernie replies. “I’ll keep ye posted and let ye know as soon as I hear back. Terribly sorry about the delay, by the way. Italians, you know. They take their sweet time.”

“As long as we get a weekend in Tuscany some time soon, I’m perfectly fine with waiting,” Richard says, matter-of-factly. And Taron really can’t help but wholeheartedly agree.

“And wouldn’t we all, Richard,” Bernie concurs. “Well said, mate. Well then! Toodle-do, boys! Have a great weekend!”

“Bye, Bernie!” they say, in unison, as Richard closes the call.

Richard just stares at Taron for a bit, then, taking another sip from his mug and looking annoyingly amused.

“Oh, bloody hell, Dickie. What is it?” Taron asks, impatiently, after ten whole seconds of Richard’s blue eyes scrutinising him and his sly, half-smile peeking at him from the top of his open laptop.

“Just wondering… Have you actually _asked_ Elton, or are you just assuming he’ll do it?”

Taron squints at him, outraged. How _dare_ he. “I’ll have you know, you absolute _arse_ , that I didn’t even have to. He _offered_ to—approximately two hours after you proposed.”

***

“So, any news on who’s going to be by your side on the big day?” Taron asks Richard over dinner at the Wolseley a couple of days later.

“Oh? I thought we’d established that Cara’s boys and your sisters were going to be page boys and flower girls? And the guests… Well, we sent invitations out last week—nearly gave myself carpal tunnel signing all those cards. Don’t tell me I’ve forgotten something?”

“I mean your best man, Dickie. You still haven’t told me who you want to ask. Bleddyn would very much like to know, too—potentially coordinate speeches, don’t make the same jokes twice, blah, blah, blah.”

Richard takes a gulp of water and blushes. “I mean… I _have_ thought about it. Like, a lot. And I think I’ve made a decision, but I’m not sure whether it’d be weird. For you?”

God, he’s adorable when he’s coy and considerate like this. “Spit it out, love. Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ll survive.”

“I’d like to ask Jeremy. But, you know. We have—what, _history_? Nothing there anymore, of course, but…”

Taron chuckles. “Oh, sweetheart,” he coos. “If we were to rule out everyone you fucked around with in your twenties, I suspect your half of the church would look considerably sparse.”

Richard quirks an eyebrow and opens his mouth to retort. Taron can clearly see he’s looking for something sassy to throw at him—except, he’s coming up with absolutely nothing. On cue, Richard closes his mouth again and looks down at the baby artichokes that are left in his plate, plays with them for a beat, moving them around with his fork. “Yeah alright. Fair point,” he concedes. “Still fuck off—but fair point.”

Taron smiles broadly, then covers Richard’s hand with his over the table, next to the bottle of Chianti they’re working their way through, alongside their meal. “I love Jeremy, Dickie. You know I do. Ask him—he’ll be absolutely chuffed. I was on the phone with Simon the other day and he just wouldn’t stop dropping hints. I think, if anything, you’re behind on schedule.”

Richard laughs as he entwines their fingers on the small table, then pulls Taron’s arm closer to him and leans in to kiss the back of his hand. “Thank you, _mo chrìdhe_.”

“No need, my darling. Plus, if Jeremy is on board, you can definitely tell Kit that he doesn’t need to take care of the bill for the customised kilt pins he ordered for all of you lads on his own—and you’ll make him very happy, too. His highborn Scottish wife is stingy, apparently. He sent me a very long text about it, the other day.”

“And since when have you and Kit been texting, exactly?” Richard asks, frowning.

Taron takes a sip of wine. “Shall I remind you I’ve ‘ad his number for years,” he replies. “Plus, well… The amount of plotting that is done behind your back—you have _no idea_ , my love.”

“Is there a groupchat I should maybe know about?”

“Oh, darling. Not just one. _Seven_.”

“Fucking hell.”

***

When they land in Pisa, they can physically see the heat rising from the tarmac, and it’s frankly a bit scary. Thankfully, though, Richard has of course chosen a very luxurious rental, about which Taron most definitely teased him— _an F-type, seriously, Dickie, can you be any more predictable?_ —and said very luxurious rental is a convertible. After a few miles spent debating whether it would be a better idea to take the top off or turn the air-con on, they pick the first option, quickly finding themselves winding through the gorgeous hills of Tuscany, sweltering in the heat of the sun but extremely well ventilated.

They get to Villa Vignamaggio in the early afternoon, after stopping along the way for a sumptuous meal made up of Fiorentina and some out-of-this-world red, and they all but collapse on their bed in the suit with the stunning view on the vineyard that Richard has secured them for the weekend. Their appointment with the head of the estate is not until tomorrow at 11AM—which means they get to rest and fuck and gawp at the wondrous décor of their room, before going for a walk in the hills of Chianti and bathing in the ridiculous infinity pool of the old country home turned five-star hotel just as the sun is setting, then filling their bellies with some more excellent meat and getting drunk on some more exceptional red, all the while talking to the owners, discovering even more about the estate, and hearing stories about Tuscany and Chianti—and just really, _really_ regretting not having planned a day trip to Florence.

“Did you know,” Taron slurs, plastered out of his mind and happy as he rarely ever remembers being, while Richard is gently pushing him through the door of their room, “that they to _weddings_ in ‘ere?”

“I did not,” Richard replies, pinning him against the now closed door and kissing his neck, a man on a mission. “Maybe for the next one, eh?” he says, breathing hotly against Taron's slightly damp skin as he sucks a mark there. “Maybe in ten years. Vow renewal, and all that shite.”

“You… mmmh… you make it sound so romantic, Dickie,” Taron jokes, pressing Richard closer and tugging on his hair, gently, the way he knows Richard likes it.

“Oh, shut up, love,” Richard says, broad and eager. “Get out of this douchey yacht boy outfit and get on that bed, now.”

***

The next morning, they get a proper tour of the estate and they sample the wine the owners suggest—all six different kinds for the starters and main course, and four more for dessert—and it’s so _difficult_ not to exceed their budget and buy the whole fucking selection, even if they’re not having them all at the wedding, so they ultimately decide they don’t care. They splash on Italian wine without any kind of remorse whatsoever—and Taron texts his Mam about it, too.

When the clock strikes 3PM, they fall back into their routine from the previous day. Tipsy and giddy wandering around the vineyards, sunbathing, a glass of red in the pool and then three more, as they see the night fall and witness everyone leaving for dinner while they’re still in the water, all alone, with almost no lights around them. They scout around for a bit, then, and find a dark, hidden corner of the pool where Taron can wrap his legs around Richard and Richard can discreetly yank off both their bathing suits and fuse their bodies together, kissing and kissing Taron to muffle tiny whines and deep, throaty moans, until they climax together and then burst into laughter, drunk on each other.

The next day, when they’re shaking hands and thanking the owners of the Villa using the shreds of broken Italian that Richard picked up while he was filming _Medici_ , Taron really, really doesn’t want to leave. When the Jag roars again and they make their drive back through the hills of Chianti, hectares and hectares of green estates that will soon turn yellow and red and gold at the changing of the seasons, Taron is almost heart-broken.

“Promise we’re coming back, Richard. Promise me,” he pleas, closing his hand over Richard’s on the gear stick.

“I already booked us in for two weeks in early October,” Richard replies, not batting an eyelash as he delivers the umpteenth confirmation—that Taron didn’t really need—that he is absolutely, one hundred _fucking_ percent husband material.

***

The month of August runs as smoothly as it can when Richard is away filming and Taron is left in London on his own, fully immersed in the absolute fucking bedlam of last-minute arrangements. He drinks way too much tea and smokes way too many cigarettes and he spends approximately fifteen hours of every day on the phone, ringing Bernie and Jamie and Elton and his Mam almost non-stop. He also wakes up early for when Richard gets off work at night in LA and then bends his ear as well—until Richard says that's enough, that Taron’s exhausting himself, wallowing in his anxieties, and that he needs to take a fucking break. Get his arse to Aber, go sailing with the boys, play princesses with the girls, and just generally put his feet up and let Tina take care of him.

So, he does. He goes away for two whole weeks and spends his days on the beach and his nights on the lash with Tom and Bleddyn and Craig, and sees all the others coming and going from summer holidays. Meets a couple of new babies—friends of friends who brought new life into the world—which make him feel some kind of way. As in, they spark some sort of fatherly instinct in him. It has always been there, to be fair, but he’s always repressed it, too. _Not_ _yet_ , he’s been telling himself for years. _Not until I’m with the right person_. And now, he supposes, he is. He makes a mental note to approach the subject in six months or so, then stashes it away in the back of his mind, downs another Jaegerbomb, and declares everything right with the world once again.

When he has to get back to London at the beginning of September, he occupies the four or so hours of his solo car journey moaning and groaning to himself about having to spend another week on his own before Richard will finally be back. When he opens the door of their apartment, he almost has a heart attack. Richard’s knackered Converse are in the hallway, and there’s a trail of clothes—Richard’s blue jeans, a white t-shirt, black socks, black boxers—going from the base of the stairs to the top. Which, of course, he follows eagerly, struggling out of his own clothes and ending up half-naked in record time, until he has to stop in the doorframe and take a loud, sharp breath at the sight in front of him—Richard’s ripped, tanned body sprawled on the mattress, curls tousled and messy from the hand he’s running through them as he strokes himself slowly and meticulously, softly moaning, and just generally putting on the best fucking show Taron’s seen in a while.

During the following days, they fuck so much that Taron feels constantly dehydrated and spent, so they drink water and shower and sleep and summon different delivery people for sustenance and other bare necessities, and they just don’t bother with that whole extremely overrated business of getting out of the house. When they do, however, it’s not for a pedestrian occasion. It’s because they’re invited for dinner at Elton and David’s in Windsor to celebrate the wedding—which is just a little more than two weeks away, fuck fuck _fuck_ —and because Elton has to finalise the setlist for his and Harry’s performance at said wedding, and he absolutely needs Taron’s approval on it.

“So, of course we’re doing the whole of _Captain Fantastic_ ,” Elton says, matter-of-factly, and as if it weren’t the biggest fucking deal _ever_. “Oh, darling, it’s no bother at all,” he adds, when Taron’s eyes widen in shock and surprise. “We’ve rehearsed it already, and I’ve been told we were _marvellous_.”

Taron feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. Elton John, the man, the legend, his _friend_ , is going to sing Taron’s favourite album from top to bottom at his wedding, and he distinctly feels like he’s been touched by the gods. It’s very hard, then, to swallow the knot in his throat and mutter a few emotional words of thanks, utterly inappropriate and absolutely not enough in exchange of the incredible gift Elton is giving him—but he does, anyways, because he needs to let Elton finish talking.

“Then, first dance. _Your Song_ , of course, because I know you wouldn’t have it any other way. Gosh, you should hear Harry sing that.”

More tears, more swallowing them down, and more half-weepy nodding.

“And then… Would _you_ like to dust off some fan-favourites with me, maybe?” Elton asks, with a cheeky grin.

Taron scooches closer to Elton on the couch and hugs him, tight as he can as he proceeds to completely break down all over the fancy red and blue Gucci number Elton is sporting. “Thank you, Elton. Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ ,” he blubs, overwhelmed. He then disentangles from the hug and looks Elton deep in his eyes through light-orange glasses. “Yes. Yes, I would _love_ to sing with you again. I’ve been hoping we’d get the chance—I just didn’t think it would be, you know…”

“…at your own wedding,” Elton finishes for him, bringing a hand up to caress his cheek. “I’m so happy for you, my dear. He’s a good one, you know.”

A few more tears roll off Taron’s eyes as he bites his lower lip and he nods. “I know. I know, and I’m grateful. So incredibly grateful, for everything. To you, for choosing me. For believing in me. In _us_. For thinking that we would be good enough to bring your first love to the big screen,” he says, words flowing out of his mouth in a sudden heap of passionate eloquence. “For quite literally getting us in bed together. Thank you, Elton.”

“You’re very welcome, my darling Blodwyn. It’s one of the two things I’m really good at—getting people sober and matchmaking. You didn’t need the first one, so I put my everything in the second. And what a pretty, pretty pair you two make. Can’t wait to see a ring on that finger.”

“Can’t wait, either.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this whole thing, 4k words of pure fluff and silliness and some hotness sprinkled here and there.  
> I also hope it made some kind of sense.  
> I also hope it won't take me as long to make these two finally tie the knot.
> 
> As usual, I love you all, and thank you for still being here.  
> See you very soon,  
> C xx
> 
> P.S.: in case any of you were curious, yes, the estate in Chianti is of course [a real thing](https://www.vignamaggio.com/), and I absolutely want to go there ASAP.  
> P.P.S.: no, we don't know Jamie Bell's baby girl's name yet. Yes, I've been calling her Iris in my head ever since I learned she existed, (please don't ask me why), so that's why she's called Iris in this story.


End file.
